CHAPTER II
July 4th.
Enter the family of Thornycroft Farm, of which I am already a member ingood and regular standing.
I introduce Mrs. Heaven first, for she is a self-saturated person whowould never forgive the insult should she receive any lower place.
She welcomed me with the statement: "We do not take lodgers here, norboarders; no lodgers, nor boarders, but we do occasionally admit payingguests, those who look as if they would appreciate the quietude of theplyce and be willing as you might say to remunerate according."
{Mrs. Heaven: p10.jpg}
I did not mind at this particular juncture what I was called, so long asthe epithet was comparatively unobjectionable, so I am a paying guest,therefore, and I expect to pay handsomely for the handsome appellation.Mrs. Heaven is short and fat; she fills her dress as a pin-cushion fillsits cover; she wears a cap and apron, and she is so full of platitudesthat she would have burst had I not appeared as a providential outlet forthem. Her accent is not of the farm, but of the town, and smacks whollyof the marts of trade. She is repetitious, too, as well asplatitudinous. "I 'ope if there's anythink you require you will let usknow, let us know," she says several times each day; and whenever sheenters my sitting-room she prefaces her conversation with the remark: "Itrust you are finding it quiet here, miss? It's the quietude of theplyce that is its charm, yes, the quietude. And yet" (she dribbles on)"it wears on a body after a while, miss. I often go into Woodmucket tovisit one of my sons just for the noise, simply for the noise, miss, fornothink else in the world but the noise. There's nothink like noise forsoothing nerves that is worn threadbare with the quietude, miss, or atleast that's my experience; and yet to a strynger the quietude of theplyce is its charm, undoubtedly its chief charm; and that is what ourpaying guests always say, although our charges are somewhat higher thanother plyces. If there's anythink you require, miss, I 'ope you'llmention it. There is not a commodious assortment in Barbury Green, butwe can always send the pony to Woodmucket in case of urgency. Our payingguest last summer was a Mrs. Pollock, and she was by way of having suddenfancies. Young and unmarried though you are, miss, I think you will tykemy meaning without my speaking plyner? Well, at six o'clock of a rainyafternoon, she was seized with an unaccountable desire for vegetablemarrows, and Mr. 'Eaven put the pony in the cart and went to Woodmucketfor them, which is a great advantage to be so near a town and yet 'avethe quietude."
{Mr. Heaven: p11.jpg}
Mr. Heaven is merged, like Mr. Jellyby, in the more shining qualities ofhis wife. A line of description is too long for him. Indeed, I canthink of no single word brief enough, at least in English. The Latin"nil" will do, since no language is rich in words of less than threeletters. He is nice, kind, bald, timid, thin, and so colourless that hecan scarcely be discerned save in a strong light. When Mrs. Heaven goesout into the orchard in search of him, I can hardly help calling from mywindow, "Bear a trifle to the right, Mrs. Heaven--now to the left--justin front of you now--if you put out your hands you will touch him."
Phoebe, aged seventeen, is the daughter of the house. She is virtuous,industrious, conscientious, and singularly destitute of physical charm.She is more than plain; she looks as if she had been planned without anydefinite purpose in view, made of the wrong materials, been badly puttogether, and never properly finished off; but "plain" after all is arelative word. Many a plain girl has been married for her beauty; andnow and then a beauty, falling under a cold eye, has been thought plain.
Phoebe has her compensations, for she is beloved by, and reciprocates thepassion of, the Woodmancote carrier, Woodmucket being the English mannerof pronouncing the place of his abode. If he "carries" as energeticallyfor the great public as he fetches for Phoebe, then he must be a risingand a prosperous man. He brings her daily, wild strawberries, cherries,birds' nests, peacock feathers, sea-shells, green hazel-nuts, samples ofhens' food, or bouquets of wilted field flowers tied together tightly andheld with a large, moist, loving hand. He has fine curly hair of sandyhue, which forms an aureole on his brow, and a reddish beard, which makesanother inverted aureole to match, round his chin. One cannot look athim, especially when the sun shines through him, without thinking howlovely he would be if stuffed and set on wheels, with a little string todrag him about.
{The Woodmancote carrier: p13.jpg}
Phoebe confided to me that she was on the eve of loving the postman whenthe carrier came across her horizon.
"It doesn't do to be too hysty, does it, miss?" she asked me as we wereweeding the onion bed. "I was to give the postman his answer on theMonday night, and it was on the Monday morning that Mr. Gladwish made hisfirst trip here as carrier. I may say I never wyvered from that moment,and no more did he. When I think how near I came to promising thepostman it gives me a turn." (I can understand that, for I once met theman I nearly promised years before to marry, and we both experienced sucha sense of relief at being free instead of bound that we came nearfalling in love for sheer joy.)
{Picture of toy on wheels: p14.jpg}
The last and most important member of the household is the Square Baby.His name is Albert Edward, and he is really five years old and no baby atall; but his appearance on this planet was in the nature of a completesurprise to all parties concerned, and he is spoiled accordingly. He hasa square head and jaw, square shoulders, square hands and feet. He isred and white and solid and stolid and slow-witted, as the young of hisclass commonly are, and will make a bulwark of the nation in course oftime, I should think; for England has to produce a few thousand suchsquare babies every year for use in the colonies and in the standingarmy. Albert Edward has already a military gait, and when he hasacquired a habit of obedience at all comparable with his power ofcommand, he will be able to take up the white man's burden withdistinguished success. Meantime I can never look at him withoutmarvelling how the English climate can transmute bacon and eggs, tea andthe solid household loaf into such radiant roses and lilies as bloom uponhis cheeks and lips.
The Diary of a Goose Girl Page 2
